A Little Goes a Long Way
by pdotzombie
Summary: Rated M for drug use, violence, death, sex both het and slash pairings , and probably more. This is a saga of Pickles' life, starting from age 16 continuing until "the present."


Nancy was only half listening to her boyfriend as he sat perched on his bed, rambling on about the greatness of the video game he was playing. She slumped further into his shoulder and picked idly at the corners of the crumpled flannel sheets.

"Oh, fuck this!" he abruptly threw down the controller and jumped off the bed in order to better throw a tantrum. "How'm I s'posed ta get down the tunnel when d'damn flower thing keeps pahppin' ahp n' shootin' fire at me?"

He didn't even notice the aggravated glare he received from Nancy as she toppled over.

"Babe..." she began slowly, her eyes catching a peculiar item in the corner of his bedroom.

She hesitated and tucked a curly, brown lock behind her ear. She felt his eyes raise to look at her.

"Yee-ah...?"

"Remind me again why you bah-t that guitahr?"

"I thah-t that was ah-bvious, babe," his eyes darted between his girl and his guitar, and he scratched his head through his thick red hair. "Ah'm gonna be a star."

Nancy pursed her lips and quirked an eyebrow at him. She desperately wanted to argue that he could hardly play the thing, that he wasn't in a band, that he just didn't have it in him to become a success. But she thought better of it, and instead opted to simply avert her eyes and nod. She lifted herself off the bed and stretched before shuffling towards him.

"Yee-ah," she nodded once more. "Anywee, it's meatloaf night n' my ma is prahb'ly gonna be wonderin' where Ah'm at soon."

"Yee-ah, okee. Ah'll show ya out, den..."

After Nancy had slipped on her shoes and gathered her school books and her backpack, the young couple made their way towards the front door. Nancy held his hand in silence until he reached for the knob to let her make her leave.

"T'anks fer havin' me over, Sean," she said before she stepped onto the porch.

"Pfft, I wish you'd jest call me Pickles like ahll my other friends do," he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Yee-ah, but I'm yer _girl _friend!" Now it was Nancy's turn to scoff.

"Yee-ah, yee-ah," he flashed her a good natured, crooked grin before giving her a quick peck and sending her on her way.

The young redhead strolled casually down the hallway back towards his bedroom when the familiar sounds of parental arguing caught his attention. Curious, he slowly tip toed towards the source of the noise, careful not to step on any creaky floor boards or breathe too heavily. He crept towards the doorway of the living room where his parents bickering voices began to grow steadily more audible. He approached and gingerly pressed his ear against the door, slightly straining to make out the words "Jest name one thing, Molly. Jest one thing. It cee-an't be done!"

"Well... he's really good at picking up instruments..."

"Yee-ah? N' what good's that gonna do'im? Nothin'! Because in the real world, people graeduate frahm high school, n' dey work fer a livin'. That liddle low-life baestard don' do nothin' but sit around all dee n' smoke dope n' mess around with his cheap girlfree-end. He's a disgrace, n' I want him outta dis house."

"Oh, but Cal... let's give da boy jest one more che-ance. I don' like his behaevior 'nymore'n you do, but we cee-an't jest dump him ahff in the streets, ya know."

"N' Why naht?! He acts so treashy aes it is, he mee as well go 'njoy it with ahll the other treash in the streets."

A knot formed in the redhead's throat and his heart sank deep into the pit of his stomach. There was no way his parents were not talking about him. No, they would never say anything bad about their precious, darling Seth. Suddenly, a gruff hand latched onto his shoulder, turning him away from the door. Talk about speaking of the devil and he shall appear.

"Hey douche fag," the brunet practically spat at him, "what're you friggin' doin' here?"

He said nothing, but glowered in his older brother's direction. Seth studied him for a moment before realizing his parents were on the other side of the door, bickering away about what to do with their younger son. Seth squinted his eyes and tilted his head.

"They're... gonna kick yer friggin' ass outta here. Heh. Dat's funny. I knew one day they'd see what I see. Yer jest a lazy, ugly, weeste a speece."

"Take dat back, Seth."

"What're ya gonna do, meeke me? Ugly losers like you jest gahtta learn their pleece in life-"

Seth was interrupted by a balled up fist coming in contact with his jaw. He howled in agony and stumbled through the door, cutting his parents conversation to an early end.

"Sethie, what-?" Molly's eyes had widened to an almost comical degree.

Rather than answering her, the older of the two boys scooped himself up off the floor and barreled forwards, grunting out a war cry. The younger braced himself for impact, but was still knocked to the floor by the sheer force of his brother. In a frenzy of arms and legs, the pair rolled into the living room and crashed into the coffee table, jarring the items resting on it.

"Pickles! Git ahff yer brother right this instant!" Molly's voice called to deaf ears, for Pickles did no such thing. Instead, he pinned his brother to the floor and began administering blow after blow. Molly frantically begged her sons to cease, but they did not acquiesce. She attempted to separate them, pulling with all the might in her petite frame to no avail.

The resonate echo of broken glass and the sour scent of scotch whisky filled the air, prompting all three to halt and turn their heads in the direction of the head of the household. His head hung low as he shook it back and forth in disgust. His eyes darted around the shards of broken glass and wasted booze that now littered the once clean floor. Molly bit her lip nervously, unsure of what to expect next. Calvert's weary eyes rose directly to meet those of his youngest son.

"Git ahff yer brother," he repeated his wife's words plainly.

"Or what?!" Pickles spat back at his father, remaining straddled over his squirming brother. "Yer gonna kick me out? Pfft, who cee-ares? Yer gonna do that 'nywee, aren'tcha old man? Cee-an't weet ta git rid ahv yer good fer nahthin' son, cee-an ya?"

Calvert's eyes squinted and the wrinkles on his face set deeper. The venom seethed through his teeth as he all but whispered, "Git out ahv my sight."

Having enough foresight to see that this conversation was going nowhere, the redhead swung his leg over his bloodied sibling and hoisted himself to his feet. Molly immediately stooped over Seth and whimpered as she made the sign of the cross. Pickles sneered disdainfully at his family and retreated, finally, back to his bedroom.

The moment he set foot on his own turf, he slammed the door shut with all his might and locked it. The moment the latch hitched, the teen felt a rush of heat engulf him as tears began to pool in his eyes, blurring his vision. Forcing himself to refrain from crying, a tingle set in his nose and it began to run slightly. He tilted his head in order to wipe away the runny snot.

"He can't kick me out if I up and leave," the boy thought to himself in a moment of revelation.

With that, he grabbed his raggedy backpack off the floor to dump its contents on his bed. He discarded all of the contents except for an all but used notebook and several pens which he jammed back inside. After briefly taking in his room, he moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He dug around for a moment before retrieving a small dime bag and a pack of cigarettes. With a satisfied smirk growing on his cheeks, Pickles gingerly rested the sacred items on top of his dresser before returning to his digging. Now equipped with the narcotics and several changes of socks and underwear, he crammed the articles to the bottom of his back pack.

"Oh wait, crap..." he said in realization and pulled everything out. He slid down onto the floor and scooted halfway under his bed. The redhead's face furrowed in concentration as he groped blindly until he pinpointed the objects in question. Gyms shoes gripped in one hand, he used the other to propel himself backwards and lift himself off the floor. The shoes were then shoved to the bottom of the bag before the remaining items were reinserted.

Prior to replacing the notebook, he crudely ripped out a sheet of paper and scrawled a quick goodbye and apology to his short term girl friend. He felt like a jerk for ending things this way, but if he was going to run away there could be no strings attached.

"Hmmm..." he sighed thoughtfully, leaving the note on his bed, hoping against hope Nancy would come into his room and find the letter. Another sigh, and he began attempting to decide which items were most important. A trip back to the dresser warranted three t-shirts and a spare pair of pants. He lifted a gray hoodie off the floor and slung it around his small frame. Another revelation struck the boy and he began patting down his pockets to check for any cash he might find. A small lump in the left pocket suggested he check its contents. And so he crammed his hand deep in his jeans to retrieve a five, a couple singles, and several coins. Moments later he found himself scrounging around on the floor looking for any loose change that may have found its way there. Before he knew it, he was on the edge of his bed tying the laces of his work boots and ready to hit the road.

"Ah," he strode towards his latest purchase. "Cee-an't fergit _you,_" he picked up his precious Gibson Les Paul by the neck and swung it over one shoulder, leaving room for his bag on the other. His hand quivered as he reached for the door knob, preparing to leave the safety of his bedroom. His breath hitched and he took a deep breath. The boy nodded to himself, and went for it. Eyes ever on the prize, he kept his focus on the front door. However steadfast he attempted to remain, his eyes couldn't help but be drawn by the flickering of the television in the otherwise dark living room. His father sat hunched and sulking in the armchair, hand clasped to a new glass of scotch. Pickles stared at him briefly unawares that his father was indeed aware of his presence. Calvert buried his forehead in his free hand. A guttural voice escaped his lips and spoke without reservation.

"You belahng in a gaerbage cee-an."

Pickles was momentarily taken aback, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and sped to the front door. Upon slamming it, he rushed down the street and turned hastily onto the first main road. Not entirely sure of what he was going to do with himself yet, Pickles decided he would simply head south. The redhead was not sure of what time it was or how long he had been walking, but he was was willing to wager he had been on the move for at the very least an hour. He was also quite certain that he had traveled a good few miles and was well far away from his house. With aching legs and feet he was beginning to regret ditching week after week of gym class. A familiar electricity hung in the air mingling with a soft breeze. The redhead looked up in just enough time to see lightening crackle across the evening sky. Mere moments later, the sky seemingly opened up and began to pour water down by the gallons.

"Fuckin' April showers..."

After some scurrying and a vain attempt to shield his instrument, Pickles found himself on the side of the road with his thumb jerked outward.

"Come ahn... someone, 'nyone... I'd git inna car with'n axe murderer if'e pulled over..."

Fortunately for the boy, a Mack truck pulled over shortly after he began hitching. The door swung open, fluttering slightly in the wind.

"Get on in, Red," came a man's voice.

Pickles grabbed his meager possessions and clambered aboard with little reservation. His eyes soon fell on a man of about 30 wearing a dingy pair of coveralls on top of a flannel button down. A John Deere cap adorned his head, covering his hair. Pickles assumed his hair was black, judging by the dark scruff growing on his pudgy cheeks, chin, and upper lip. The cabin had a strong but not entirely unpleasant smell. Pickles thought he could detect the aroma of coffee mingling with well worn in leather and metallic sweat.

"My name's John, but my friends call me Johnny Cakes. Pleased to meet ya, kid," the man grinned broadly.

Pickles nodded and shuffled his belongings in his lap as he reached into his bag.

"I...I don' have 'ny money...ta paey for gaes," he lied, clutching to the small plastic baggy. "But... I know s'not the same, but I cen give ya sahme weed. I mean, ya could prahb'ly sell it n' git sahme money fer it n' tha's like, the same as if I-"

"Don't worry about it, kid," Johnny Cakes cut him off. "You're ridin' for free. The government pays for this thing's gas. Only thing is, you ride where I ride. I can't deviate from my course."

"Where're you ridin'?"

"Milwaukee. Is that where you're heading?"

"Close enough, anywee... I'll taeke th'ride. T'anks very much, Johnny."

Pickles fumbled again with the contents of his bag before retrieving his pack of cigarettes.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Sure you're old enough? Ha ha, I'm just kidding. I don't care, so long as you share. Look at me, bumming cigs off an underage kid..." Johnny laughed to himself.

"For yer information," came the retort, "Ah'll be 18 in jest a couple'a months!"

"Okay, okay, take it easy, Red.... say, what's your name, anyway?"

"Call me Pickles."

"That's a funny name you got there, Pickles."

"So's Johnny Cakes," the redhead quipped.

"Ha ha ha! You're all right, kid."

Pickles quirked a crooked grin at the man and took a long drag. Letting the cigarette dangle from his lips, he pulled the notebook and a pen into his lap.

"Doing some homework or something, kid?"

"Don' worry 'bout it."

"Okay, okay, just asking. I won't pry."

Pickles sighed and began to write.

_Dear Journal: _

_ Today is April 11__th__ and I just kissed my old home goodbye. My family can get bent. The weather is shitty and I'm in a truck with some crazy dude named Johnny Cakes. He seems pretty harmless, __though. I don't know what time I left or what time I'll get to wherever it is I'm going. This guy is going to take me as far as Milwaukee. I don't know how I'll get around after this, but I'm gonna find a way to L.A. I'll show everyone. I swear, I'm gonna be a star._

Pickles capped the pen and returned it along with the notebook to his bag.

"Mind if I sleep?" the runaway queried.

"Nah, go right ahead, kid."

It had been a long and stressful day. It didn't take much time at all before Pickle's eyelids grew heavy and fluttered shut.


End file.
